She gasped as my cock burst from my jeans—hard, throbbing, and demanding that one of the girls swallow every inch. Brunette obliged, immediately gagging over the length. I put up with it until her tooth accidentally scraped me.
Oh, hell no. One of Ironfield’s famous potholes and I’d be circumcised. I tugged on her hair and encouraged her to use her hand instead.
It wasn’t as good, but Blondie and Halter-Top made up for it. They timidly kissed as if neither of the girls were bad enough to experiment in college. After a few seconds, they started groaning. Blondie got the right idea. Her fingers slipped beneath Halter-Top’s shirt and crept up, up, up until her new friend’s eyes widened and she breathed that telling little Oh!
Never let it be said Jack Carson didn’t offer his girls a good time and a variety of new experiences.
My luck didn’t last long. I merged onto the bridge and into traffic just as Brunette screamed.
She braced herself against the dash as a minivan tried to exit the bridge by cutting across three lanes of traffic and weaving in front of my car. I jammed the brakes, but it didn’t do a damn thing when the van swerved into my lane. For whatever bullshit reason, the van slammed her brakes too.
I couldn’t prevent the collision.
My pristine 1968 Camaro crashed into some shitty soccer mom’s rusted van. Both vehicles lurched across the lanes as frames bent and tires popped. My hopes of getting laid ended as my head bounced off the steering wheel.
Smacking my nose was better than my arm or knee, but not by much.
The women turned to banshees, shrieking in terror like the cars crashed and careened over the bridge and into the water below. My headlights and windshield shattered, but the van got it worse, twisting into the next two lanes.
Fuck. We blocked the entire highway.
The traffic stopped behind us, and I struggled to stuff my cock in my pants before the frantic van driver launched from her seat and dropped to the road in absolute hysterics.
My girls burst from the car too, scampering over each other in a rush to get away from the crash.
Halter-Top screamed. “Run! It’ll blow up like in the movies!”
At least she had a killer rack, even if she didn’t have any fucking common sense.
I kicked open my door and ran a hand over my bloodied nose. I didn’t care that I probably broke it. My car was completely totaled.
A camera flashed.
I grunted, turning to face a slew of onlookers who also rushed from their cars the instant someone recognized me and screamed my name. Another camera flashed, this time belonging to the three women I had escorted. My dates categorized their injuries and the damage to the car in detailed selfies.
Those pictured would be uploaded to the internet in minutes. Not good. I was in enough hashtags at the moment.
Flashing red and blue lights lit the distance, speeding to the accident. The arrival of the police officially ruined my night. The cop jogged from his car and surveyed the scene. He pulled a flashlight and demanded licenses. Then his light flashed over my face.
“Hey! You’re Jack Carson!” The cop grinned. It was probably the greatest first-responder’s call in his life. “I can’t believe it! Name’s Officer Ryan. You okay, man? What happened?”
I wished my nose would stop bleeding. “Just had an accident—”
“Can’t be any worse than that championship game, am I right?”
I forced a laugh. The officer didn’t have the faintest idea of how bad this would be for me.
Coach Thompson would flip his shit. My agent would be tossing Xanax again.
And Leah?
Holy shit. Unless I wound up in a full-body cast, I had no way to explain this night to her.
Leah was going to have my balls.
If she didn’t kill me instead.
Chapter Two - Leah
“What did you do this time?”
I wanted to slam the door the conference room. I thought better of it as it’d look just as bad as the headlines this morning. Instead I imagined the click of the latch as a thunderous crash.
Jack Carson flashed me a devil-may-care-and-nearly-collected-his-sorry-ass grin. Those dimples charmed, the fuck-me blue eyes brightened, and every muscle his body flexed as he stretched his long arms.
He rubbed the five o’clock shadow on his chin. Jack was the type of man who had a perpetual scruff, like he rolled out of bed, smoothed his collar-length blonde hair, and greeted the day with a middle finger and morning wood that’d make an honest, hard-working girl blush.
And I was the one who made sunshine out of moonshine and pixies out of the disgraced starlets sneaking from his bedroom.
Not today.
Oh, not today.
I was in no mood for Jack “Play-Maker” Carson. I didn’t give a damn what prestige followed his name. His athleticism might have astounded coaches, players, and analysts, but Jack had only one nickname with me.
Trouble-Maker.
At least, that’s the only thing I could call him in polite company without losing my job. He deserved many more names—starting with bone-head and working up to the insults my father yelled watching his championship game.
“Mornin’, Kiss.” He gave me a victorious grin that probably melted the panties off the girls from last night. If they had been wearing panties. Knowing Jack, that was unlikely. “Looking good today.”
“Don’t start,” I warned.
“What?”
“Don’t you start with me.”
He surrendered and held up his hands. His arm was bruised, but not as bad as his face. Did he break his nose last night? I considered throwing the newspaper at him, but a calming breath worked wonders to deal with his crises in the past.
I set the article on the table, neatly folded next to my laptop, cell phone, and untouched mocha latte. I usually needed the coffee, but anything I drank this morning would have spit up in a panic. I ordered one anyway, just to give the appearance that today was like any other scandal. It wasn’t, but I had my own reputation to maintain.
Three hours of sleep left me cranky, but that was fine. I could be professional during the interviews and press conferences. Cordial. I’d handle Jack Carson’s latest catastrophe with the grace expected of T&R Publicists LLC. He hired us to buff out the blemishes in his reputation. Sometimes we needed a heavy rag. Today, we…needed a sledgehammer.
This problem wasn’t like Jack’s other situations. It was worse. Much worse. The league scheduled a call for eight AM, and the email we received from the president wasn’t friendly.
I’d rather deal with prosecutors and jilted lovers than Frank Bennett, president of the American League. Not only was he a hard-ass with the teams, he had a hard-on to destroy Jack’s career.
Which meant he’d destroy my career.
And that was quite unacceptable.
Jack took the newspaper and glanced over the headline. Playboy Quarterback Blitzed In Car Crash. The picture was graphic, a candid photo of Jack with blood smeared over his face and dripping onto his shirt. I ignored the three women in the background of the picture—for now. We had enough work to do.
I didn’t wait for my boss to arrive. For nearly a year, Jolene had trusted me to tame the untamable, if only because she had too much of a crush on Jack to take the lead on his case. Not a problem for me. Jack wasn’t my type. I kept myself out of trouble.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” I asked.
Jack shrugged, those broad shoulders impossibly large. “Anything you want me to say, Kiss. Isn’t that your job?”
“Don’t call me Kiss.”
“I thought you liked that nickname.”
“I don’t.”
“It suited you.”
How did he annoy me after only two seconds of conversation? The damn nickname followed me. After the past Christmas party, I never wore the shimmering gown again, not after Jack pronounced me his little Hershey’s Kiss with my mocha skin all wrapped up in silver silk. The name was funny after two glasses of wine, but a respectable girl learned never to encourage Jack Carson.
“Don’t call me Kiss,” I said. “I’ve told you before.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Many times.”
Jack tested my patience with a dangerous smile. “Well, sorry, Kiss, sometimes you talk, and I get lost in those chocolate eyes of yours. Can’t blame a man for becoming infatuated.”
Oh, please. “So…you didn’t get any action last night, and now you’re laying it all on me?”
“You’ll know when I lay on you.”
That wasn’t ever going to happen. I tucked my skirt before I sat. My laptop betrayed me with more and more headlines on my homepage. Tales of the multi-million-dollar star quarterback’s car crash dominated the news cycle, but this article was new. Apparently, Jack stopped traffic for three hours on the busiest bridge out of the city.
“Seriously, Jack,” I said. “What the hell happened?”
His expression hardened, as solemn as I could get him. “I wrecked my 1968 Camaro Z28, that’s what happened.”
I ignored the dozen emails requesting interviews and information. I cared about only one. Jack’s agent would be late. He was probably fighting traffic and sweating bullets the size of footballs to make it to the office before league president Frank Bennett forwent the charm and laid waste to Jack.
“Forget about the car,” I said.
Jack’s dazzling smile was lost to an intimidating scowl. He usually reserved that for the loud-mouth linebackers he loved to humiliate, not the only publicist willing to take his case.